When France rose to their greatest footballing heights at turn of the century, Zinedine Zidane was the talismanic figure of infinite artistry.  But a crucial component of those World Cup and European Championship winning squads was an unassuming central midfield stalwart named Emmanuel Petit.  Blessed with matinee idol good looks and a blond d’Artagnan ponytail, Petit was a methodical talent who was capable of the moment of magic but mastered the simple rather than the sublime. He perfected the skills of completing short, sensible passes, defending doggedly, and soaking up the excesses of teammates. Petit was indispensable to his nation’s success and replicated this influence for his resurgent club side, Arsenal, as well.  In essence, he made the elemental an art form.   

So in the afterglow of seeing “Tell No One” it is only fitting that I thought of Petit as I contemplated this wholly satisfying work from the 35-year-old romantic heartthrob of French cinema, Guillaume Canet, who has stepped behind the camera to superbly craft a taut, swift and enthralling mystery thriller.

Based on a novel by American author Harlan Coben, it is a familiar tale: a wanted man seeks to prove his innocence against suspicion of a most heinous crime.  But Canet transcends this common device by delivering a thoroughly entertaining film surging with a griping plot, engaging characters and urgent suspense.  Opening quietly enough with a tranquil midnight swim, the film spirals suddenly into a frenetic quest for redemption. Refreshingly adult and smart, “Tell No One” possesses a vibe reminiscent of another redemptive tale, “Three Days of the Condor.”

Confidently photographed by Christophe Offenstein and expertly edited by Herve de Luze, it is 125-minutes long but skittles along like a pebble across a pond.  There are times during a film this engrossing I don’t try to think ahead or guess as to whodunit.  When they’re good, as good as “Tell No One,“ I don’t think of them as a puzzle to be solved but instead as a clever story to savor.  

The film crackles with a superbly realistic and earthy chase scene. The chase is infused with elements of Parkour during a frenetic dash through Paris markets, shops and homes, though because our protagonist is a busy doctor venturing on middle age, it’s undignified, disjointed and panicked.

Francois Cluzet, a hunkier Dustin Hoffman, offers an impeccable axis performance as the doctor on the run. He discovers painful truths and personal transgressions which challenge the simplest notions he held of the people closest to him.  He displays a compelling breadth of ever-changing emotions, with moments of disbelief, terror, anger and even compassion all jumbled together during his steadfast quest for justice.

The diverse supporting cast is provided with roles both well written and substantial.  Even the eccentricities of a sympathetic detective are rounded off and muted.  A richly tanned and fluent Kristin Scott Thomas is a welcome presence.

Funnily enough, the final scene of the film feels a tad tacked on.  It’s like scoring a wonder goal and celebrating by running to the corner flag, dropping to all fours, and lifting a leg in a symbolic “taking the piss.”  But this is just a quibble because it surely doesn’t spoil the beauty of the goal.

So just as a supporter would have exited Highbury in the heady days of New Labour after seeing another assured Petit display musing, “If only every footballer…“, as the final credits of “Tell No One” roll, one will ponder “If only every crime movie…”